


Gracious

by havisham



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Ghosts, Haunting, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ophelia, afterwards. Sanity is only relative. Death, doubly so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gracious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thinkatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/gifts).



> Thank you, Grey Gazania and Isis, for beta-ing.

I was always more honest than you, so it should come as no surprise that my madness, at least, was real. No, I spoke with bitterness that I did not feel, for I did not feel anything then. 

My steps were quiet on the stone, and water dripped from the hem of my dress. My hair was a heavy golden rope around my neck. There were flowers in it still, browning stems and petals long since wilted. I did not pluck them out, though once my fingers were very deft. Now they stay curled up in my sleeves, ten icy finger each. 

Death was very cold. 

Did you know, Hamlet? Could you imagine? 

All around me, the living world continued on, with its crowds and its messes. It was faded, draped in shadows, as if I were the only person left, and all the rest had turned to ghosts. Cooks and serving maids, soldiers and courtiers; the king, the queen, and the fool. My brother brushed past me, raising a cloud of dust as he went. His fair brow furrowed, and his head, bowed. 

 

He thinks to kill you, by-and-by. To avenge our father. To avenge me. 

Once you made me laugh at him, that funny serious Laertes, who had no time to laugh unless it was for some good purpose, to let him rise up a little further. 

“Do you not think, fair Ophelia,” you said, your lips hovering a little ways from my ear as I leaned in close, glad to be near you, “that your brother is entirely too serious?”

“Oh, I do not think, my lord Hamlet, that he is serious enough,” I said, my eyes wide. I remembered the gambling debts, and irate letters from some girls’ fathers, bills upon bills, and never any peace at the end of them.

You laughed as if I had said something clever, exposing your white throat in your smart new ruff. How I wished to kiss it! I turned away, abashed, and felt you lightly touch my flushed cheek. A light touch, and then nothing. 

There were pearls in my hair, and I wore a white satin dress, stiff with brocade. I could hardly move in it, or breathe. (The dress was my father’s idea; when he saw me that morning, he patted my cheek and called me an angel.)

When you thought that I wasn’t looking, you stole a pearl and put in your pocket. 

I saw you, and hid a smile. 

****

*

I crept around Elsinore with silent steps. I sang snatches of songs that I only half-remembered. I did not remember the words. No one heard them. I sang anyway.

I was not, by far, the only ghost haunting this wretched pile of stones. I saw your father here and there, blowing cold gusts of winds down the queen’s neck, snapping his fingers in front of the king’s face. Gertrude shivered, and took Claudius’ hand. They smiled at each other, content, as your father rattled the suits of armor and made the dogs twitch and howl. 

My own poor father hid behind every curtain. But when I went to speak to him, he turned his face away. 

****

*

You slept with your head covered with your arms, a little boy afraid of nightmares that come prowling in the dark. I lay by your side, and there was no dip in the mattress to betray me. When I was still living, it was my greatest fear that I should find myself here one night, and have my virtue compromised, my life rendered worthless. But the weeds have choked the life from me, and now the worms try for my virtue.

I was content to watch you toss and turn, and dream. You dreamed of death; it was no longer a spectre to be feared, but a lover to be embraced.

You mouth moved, spilling out silent words. Soliloquies. 

Even in your sleep, Hamlet? Even then? 

Oh, but then you woke, with a muffled gasp. Your eyes, an indecisive blue, looked around wildly. My name came unwilling to your lips, which were paling and thin. “Ophelia!” The spell was broken and you called my name, again, and again. You were panting, too-awake and hard. The bed sheets wrapped around you, not a shroud, not yet. You tore at them, your fingers long and yearning. 

(Or so I imagined.) 

I was no longer a living girl, to be used and tossed away. I was only words now, and words and words. True, there was not much meaning strung along them, neither rhyme nor reason, but you have always loved words, haven’t you? 

Would you love me now? 

I leaned close and pressed my cold cheek against yours. Your breath showed white in the dark of the room. The fire had gone out long ago. Your heart beat so loudly. I could hear the rush of blood in your veins. 

Oh, Hamlet, Hamlet, my dear mad boy. Could you see me? 

I kissed you, and you shivered. I touched you, and you cried out. 

“Oh gracious lady,” you whispered, “have mercy on me.” Your voice was cracked and raw. I did not know if you called to me, or prayed to the Virgin Mary. But I, at least, had no more mercy to give. 

****

*

You woke the next day with a crick in your neck and your bed sheets soaked with sweat. You cracked a joke and made Horatio blush. You irritated your uncle for the last time. You fought my brother and were poisoned. When you were hit, you looked down as the hot blush of blood crossed your white shirt, in mute disbelief.

You died. 

No flights of angels sang you to your rest. Hamlet, love, there are no angels here.

Instead, you left your torn body behind and walked with weightless steps to the weed-choked pond, where I waited. Together, bound as we were, we went down into the murk and dark, until there was light again, and air.


End file.
